I crossed the threshold into the canary-colored room, its walls frosted with tiny etched flowers. The parlor was like a field in spring. I introduced myself and explained who I was to Mrs. Francis Williams, her mother, Mrs. Ella Grace, and Francis’ fifteen-year-old daughter, Annie. They welcomed me with rosy cheeks and an immediate request to use their first names. Ella poured the tea and I admired her honey-colored hair, which looked like a braided crown atop her head. She seemed too young to have a grown daughter and a granddaughter.
“You’ve come from Mrs. Bradbridge, haven’t you?” Francis asked before I could explain. Francis had fair skin and sandy-colored hair. She looked similar to her mother but had a smaller nose that tipped up slightly at the end.
I blushed. “I’m afraid Mrs. Bradbridge subjected me to an impromptu initiation and assignment.”
Ella chuckled. “Margaret is something of an abrupt woman.”
“A wretched woman.” Annie dropped three sugar cubes into her tea. Annie’s features were a mixture of her mother’s and grandmother’s, but she had strawberry-blond hair.
“Annie.” Francis’ voice hardened. “That’s enough sugar.” She turned back to me. “You are not the first unannounced caller we’ve received.”
“Oh.”
“Sugar?” Francis removed the bowl from her daughter’s reach.
“Thank you.”
Annie held out a tray of tiny flawless cakes spiraling around a silky layer of a cream. “You must try one of my grandmother’s tea cakes.”
I took one from the tray and took a bite. The spongy pastry melted into the sweet cream, dissolving my defenses. “Um…Mrs. Bradbridge wanted me to convince you to attend the emergency meeting.” Why disguise it now?
“Oh…Margaret.” Ella sighed, still cheery, while Francis rolled her eyes. “Her little games may work on the younger women, but I’m no fool. Her count is sufficient.”
I admired Ella’s resolve, but she didn’t have a husband who expected her to win Margaret and Ida’s approval. “Um—uh—”
“Oh, you poor thing. She’s gotten you as well.” Ella flashed me a compassionate smile.
“Looks that way to me,” Annie said.
I looked at Annie, and my stomach sank with humiliation—even a fifteen-year-old thought I was pathetic. I thought it, too. I didn’t want to obey Margaret’s commands, but I had to if I wanted to fix the whole mess with Ida and make it up to John.
“Well, I don’t see why we can’t make an appearance,” Ella said.
My eyes shot back to Ella.
“Just for you, Emeline, to keep you on Mrs. Bradbridge’s kinder side, although I cannot say it will last.”
“Mother, we have good reason not to go. We need to make a stand.”
“We can make a stand next time.”
Francis closed her eyes and shook her head, just barely.
“Ugh.” Annie slumped.
“Annie!” Francis barked.
I leaned forward. “Thank you so much.”
“Still, we’ll wait until the last moment,” Ella said. “Our appearance needn’t be long.”
“That’s fine. Thank you again, so much.”
“It’s our pleasure, Emeline. Have you met anyone other than the charming Mrs. Bradbridge?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t have many letters of introduction.”
Francis sighed heavily before she sipped her tea, clearly irritated, but I ignored her.
“We are well known. Perhaps we could send some letters of introduction on your behalf.”
“That would be wonderful.” I struggled not to lick my lips or reach for another cake. I considered Francis and how to regain her favor. “What does Mr. Williams do?”
Francis lifted her head. “He owns Williams’ Logging Company.”
“Logging?”
“The Mississippi is one of the country’s finest trading routes. They ship logs down the river and sell them to lumber yards. It’s quite lucrative, I assure you.”
“I imagine so.”
“What does Mr. Dorr do?”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“I’ve heard such distasteful things about lawyers. Does he enjoy it?”
I hesitated, thrown by her statement and unsure of the answer to her question. “I believe so.” I glanced at Annie, who delicately bit into her fourth tea cake. “Are you in school, Annie?”
“Of course.”
“I’m sure you are very popular.”
She shrugged. “With boys.”
Francis’ head snapped in her daughter’s direction.
“Boys?” I teased. “You are far too young for boys.”
Annie grimaced. “It so happens that I am quite old enough for boys.”
“Oh—I didn’t mean—”
“Emeline?” Francis grabbed my attention, obviously to apologize for her daughter. “Do you have children?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then I highly doubt you know anything about what young ladies have to handle these days.”
Annie grinned.
“Well, I have three sisters of all ages, not to mention I was her age once.”
“Having sisters is not the same as having a daughter, and just because young men showed you little interest at her age does not mean my daughter wouldn’t have any prospective suitors.”
I drew back in surprise. “No—I—”
“I’ll have you know, she not only has suitors, but we are expecting a proposal any day.”
“Francis,” Ella said under her breath.
I opened my mouth but couldn’t think of what to say.
“Emeline,” Ella stuttered and lifted her tea. “You said Mrs. Bradbridge recruited you unwillingly?”
I saw an opportunity to redirect Francis’ disdain. “Oh my, yes. She practically forced me. I offered one Sunday a month, and she had the audacity to say that was good for a start.” I tittered a little too loudly. “I tried to tell her I couldn’t because I am terribly busy, but she is relentless.”
“I’m surprised you are so busy without children,” Francis snipped. “I have two young boys and a maturing daughter, and I volunteer twice a week. Imagine what I would do with your time.”
“Well, um, the house is quite large, and with only one servant for only a few days a week…”
“This house is far larger than your own.”
“What? I—” I stammered and then stopped. “Pardon me, but how do you know the size of my house?”
“It might be hard for you to believe, but other people have lived in that house, and people stepped foot in it before you graced our town with your presence.”
Ella’s eyes flashed toward Francis as if ordering her to stop, but Francis had locked onto me.
“I have been inside your house,” Annie said, tilting her head and grinning.
My stomach tightened, and my face grew warm. I tried to remain calm. “Forgive me, Francis, if I said something to offend, but you have many servants, and I’m sure your mother and daughter—”
Francis’ eyes bulged and she sat straighter in her seat. “I can say with great certainty, I do not enslave my mother and children.”
I swallowed. “Um—well—I’m trying to adjust.”
Ella came to my rescue. “A new wife faces many challenges.”
“Actually, I do not remember having any difficulty.” Francis kept her eyes on me. “I slipped into the role of wife and mother the way a princess slips into a little glass slipper.”
I curled my toes in my boots.
“A brief period of adjustment is reasonable,” Ella said.
“Is that so?” Francis’ eyes were still fixed on me.
I opened my mouth to respond but couldn’t think. I awkwardly held my face down and to the side, blinking rapidly to keep my eyes dry.
“Forgive me, Mother.” Francis stood. “I will not attend the meeting, as I have other responsibilities far more important than submitting to some crabby old woman because someone else doesn’t have the stre
ngth to refuse.” She stalked out.
Annie snickered under her hand.
I touched my face, looked away, trying to hide my tears.
“Emeline?” Ella reached over. “Are you—?”
The butler entered with a woman and her daughter.
I had to get out without revealing my hot, wet face, my utter humiliation. With my head down, I stood and bowed quickly to the next two callers and then rushed out. I opened the door for myself, scuttled down the steps, and blubbered to Margaret’s driver that he was to take me back to my surrey, not back to the committee.
I fled home. I wasn’t going to return to Margaret to report my failure and give her and Ida even more kindling. I rushed to my chamber with their words chanting in my mind. I paced back and forth. I tried hard to push down the feelings of despair—down into the basement, where they belonged. I was homesick, a failure as a wife, married to a man who loathed me, and surrounded by horrible, cruel women.
And my father was dead. My papa was dead.
I collapsed to the floor and screamed. No one was home—no one ever was—so I cried, I bawled, I wailed. It was the first time I’d really let myself cry since he’d died. I may have shed tears before, but I’d always held back and reminded myself to be strong for my mother and sisters, who were in the next room or down the hall. I hadn’t fully realized it, but I’d hauled it with me all this way like an anchor dredging behind me. This was the first time I’d let it all pour out. I unfettered. I screamed and cried and wailed as hard and as loud as I could. I shrieked until my throat buckled into a wet choke. I sat there allowing tears to stream down my face and drip. I lay on the wood floor letting droplets fall onto the panels. I stayed there awhile just sobbing.
I wondered what my father would say if he were here. I wondered what he would think of me.
Finally, I sniffed, wiped my cheeks, and rubbed my eyes. I pushed myself up onto all fours and stood in front of the mirror. I studied myself, eyes red and swollen, face flushed and streaked. A scene of a woman in a cascading gown was engraved into the frame of the mirror, the dress section stretching over the left bottom corner of the reflection. Her body twisted as she gazed back while drifting into a sweeping world of metallic wind and butterflies. I often sat in a wicker rocking chair by the window and imagined the white walls reflected in it as a cloud-covered sky above an ocean.
I dropped into my simple chair and stared out the window, swaying back and forth, my lower lip trembling. Something moved outside in some overgrowth. I watched it peek out, but it slipped back before I could see it. I looked at the trees. A bird landed on a branch and hopped around without apparent purpose or care. Then it flew away. It had no obligations in life other than the necessities. All it had to do was gather food, care for its young, and fly, fly free.
Sometimes while sitting there staring out the window, I imagined a place in my mind, a white room. A simple space coated in white paint. The white represented responsibility, obligation. It didn’t require what responsibility and obligation required, but it had the same effect. It maintained the person in the room; it kept the person alive and well, along with everything and everyone that person cared for, but nothing the person held dear existed in the room. The person was alone. The person experienced no joy from bearing the weight of responsibility, earned no prize.
I imagined a particular person in the room—a woman, also clothed in white. This woman constantly faced a dilemma. She longed for freedom. She longed to be the bird.
Her open palms grazed the rutted expanse of the wall. She knew that something lay beyond—beyond the white. She could burst out into the world of grass, sky, and lavender, but she knew that if she broke through the barricade, everything she protected would crumble, suffocate, and wither behind her. Her own freedom would last only moments because she, too, couldn’t survive without the white. Earth and water would smother her, and radiant light would slice through her like a blade.
I imagined her pressing with both hands, weighing freedom against existence and all that depended on her, but in the end she lightened her stance and stepped away. She always chose to stay, to fulfill her obligation.
The rustling in the thicket outside grew louder, as if something were waging battle in it. I blinked myself out of my imagination back into the white room where I sat. I needed to cook supper. I couldn’t serve him like this. I had to collect myself. I had to be strong. I dabbed my eyes and told myself to be strong, be strong like I had all the other times. I tried, but I just wanted to fall apart. My fortitude was gone—in a puddle on the floor. It was as if, when I let go for that one moment, when I unfettered my anchor, the end of the chain slipped away and I lost it.
I was trying to keep my face from contorting and my eyes from bursting into tears when I noticed the rustling bushes again. What strange creature could throw such a tantrum? I envisioned a predator, like a wolf, but not the regular kind. I imagined it with matted fur and scarred skin, like charred red flesh. Its ears were square, as if someone had lopped the tops off. Its eyes were piercing, glowing.
What a strange thing for me to think of. I had never seen such a beast. Why would I imagine that? I studied the thicket. What if it were that wolf? What if my imaginary creature were real? What if it were down there rattling the bushes, devouring a victim. No, it wasn’t real. It seemed so vivid, so real, though. Then I wondered if I pictured it clearly enough, could I make it appear?
I closed my eyes and pictured it again, and then I looked down at the bushes and froze. There, two yellow eyes stared back at me. The face and body were hidden, but the eyes were there. I shot up but turned away, hiding myself from my creature. It wasn’t real. I had made it up. I was scaring myself. I cackled, unhinged. If I’d created it, I could just make it go away. If I looked, nothing would be there. I spun back around.
Yellow eyes. Yellow eyes glared up at me. I squeezed my eyes shut again. If I had made it appear, I could make it disappear. Or was it real and I’d tricked myself into thinking I’d done it? I looked again. Still there. It was no ordinary being; it knew that it was seeing me and that I was seeing it. It knew my secret, it knew my sin, and it was there to punish me. Had I imagined that? No. I turned away. Was it real? Was it truly real?
I whirled back—wait—gone. No eyes. What? I—did I?
I threw myself at the window, my hands and face slammed against the glass as I tried to see more. Nothing. I pushed away. I lifted my hand to my cheek and quickly dashed back to try to catch the beast at its cruel game of hide-and-seek. Nothing. Not even a group of flowers or yellow leaves. I must have been tired. I sat back down in the chair and looked out again—still nothing. I stood up. Supper. It had just been my imagination.
I put my back to the window. Then all the misery the creature had distracted me from came screaming back. Francis knew. Ida and Margaret knew. They could see it in me; they could see I was a failure. I absolutely hated this wretched house. It grew worse with every moment. The furniture taunted me. The walls closed in on me. The animated bric-a-brac and reptilian china snickered at me. All of it wanted me to know I was a failure. I couldn’t even get my husband to speak to me, let alone love me. He’d given up the chance to have a worthy wife for what reason? He’d felt sorry for me, or his parents had made him? All because my father had died. My father was dead, I was alone, and I’d failed him.
I thought of the woman in the white room—she chose to sacrifice her freedom for the people who relied on her to survive, but how long could she possibly survive without freedom? How long could she last before choosing the alternative? How long could I? Damn the world and every sacrifice everyone wanted from me. I had made enough sacrifices. I couldn’t keep my promise or make my father proud because he was dead.
My dearest James,
Forgive me, James. I’ve given all I have to make this marriage work. Nothing could make this wretched existence tolerable. My husband is a cold, heartless man. He has made no effort to build affection between us. You said his quiet m
anner was better than an unpleasant disposition, but please believe me when I say this is worse.
Not only has he condemned this union, so has the place he chose for us to live. The house itself, I cannot endure. Every day in it I am filled with terror and a rigid ache deep in my heart. I never understood how a person could hurt just from being, until now. I cannot bear it.
My dearest brother, I dread asking any favor, but I must beseech you. Please. Please, save me. I know you can enlighten Mother, and if she cannot possibly care for me, I know you will. My dear, dear James, please come soon.
Yours, Emma
Eight
April 1901
The church in Labellum was modest and poorly ventilated. I imagined it would grow hot and stuffy when spring submitted to the wet heat of summer. It was a white wooden church with oak pews and scuffed floors. No varnish. If Ida and Margaret weren’t in charge of the committee, the group could use its funds and time to make the church nicer, fix the windows so they could open, put some kind of finish on the pews, and give the pastor a decent place to preach from. He had nothing but a music stand donated from the schoolhouse, just for Sundays. Church volunteers had to promptly return it before Monday classes. Actually, the schoolhouse could have used some help, too. I had avoided Margaret since I failed her assignment, and she didn’t seek me out either.
Pastor Tomas asked us to bow our heads so he could lead us in prayer. I could hear the rain beating the roof like falling pebbles. We had just finished singing a few hymns and were still standing. I decided not to join in Pastor Tomas’ prayer but to make one of my own instead. I prayed that God could help free the committee from the grips of those two selfish women and let it be handed down to someone who would actually give back to the community. I pleaded for James to come swiftly but safely, and I prayed that my family and society would forgive me. I begged forgiveness for my inability to honor my husband as God would surely want me to. I prayed for John—I prayed that my choice would lead him to marry a woman he truly loved and one who could serve him properly. I asked forgiveness for all my choices, all my sins.
I finished my prayer before Pastor Tomas had. He continued to ramble on in a flowery show of inspirational words louder and louder. I didn’t join in but opened my eyes and indiscreetly scanned the parishioners. John held his head low and mouthed the words, his eyes squeezed shut.
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